What's In a Name
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Norrington is turning into a workaholic, and Gillette decides to take matters into his own hands.


I'm writing this to cheer myself up after watching "The Talented Mr. Ripley," in which my beloved Jack Davenport dies a horrible, gruesome death in the middle of being slashy with Matt Damon. Damn you, Matt Damon! Burn in hell, you Jack-killing psychopath! *sobs* Why? He was so hot...and slashy...and British...  
  
But, as Elske told me, there's only one way to cure depression like the kind of depression you feel when your favorite actor is strangled to death with a bathrobe cord, and that's to write Norrington/Gillette fluff. (I know another way, Elske. Reading Chapter 7 of "One Night More!" *needs more leverage*) Standard disclaimers apply.  
  
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It was long past midnight when Gillette chanced to peer through the still-lit window of his commander's office. The light was dim, but squinting through the near-darkness, he could make out the form of the commodore, hunched over his desk and scribbling something; his nose almost touched the parchment as he squinted to re-read what he'd written. From time to time, he would stop and rest his forehead in his hands, running cramped fingers through disheveled dark hair and once even lowering his head to rest exhaustedly on the desk itself.   
  
Gillette had noticed his unusual preoccupation lately, his uncharacteristic listlessness. The rest of the regiment had chalked it up to heartbreak over Elizabeth's rejection, and Gillette had been inclined to agree with them. He realized now that some of it, perhaps most of it, had to be due to exhaustion. Did he work this late every night?  
  
He slipped quietly into the office and closed the door behind him. Norrington jerked his head up from the desk with a sharp gasp. "Who's there? What do you want?"  
  
"It's me, sir. Gillette." Gillette squinted through the dim light. "Sir, you shouldn't be working this late. And especially not writing, not with such little light. It's not good for your eyes, sir."  
  
"My eyes are fine, Lieutenant." Norrington sighed. "I appreciate your concern, but I'll be quite all right."  
  
His voice was weak, a barely-audible murmur. Gillette winced, and wondered if Norrington was awake enough to be angry with him if he pushed further. "Sir," he said firmly, "you're making yourself ill...it worries me, sir; you don't look well at all, and no wonder, if you're working yourself to death like this and not getting any sleep! You'll do yourself an injury if you aren't careful!"  
  
"Gillette, I assure you, I'm fine."   
  
He did not look "fine" in the least; he looked exhausted, tense, strained nearly to the breaking point. Instinctively, Gillette reached out to squeeze the commodore's shoulder.   
  
Norrington tensed, and relaxed abruptly. "Lieutenant..." He closed his eyes.  
  
"Aye, sir?" Gillette smiled innocently, and did not remove the hand. Norrington exhaled softly.   
  
"Forgive me. I...I'm being..." He shook his head, muscles tightening of their own accord. "It's nothing," he murmured.  
  
Gillette moved, on the pretense of looking over the commodore's shoulder, to stand behind him, and steadied himself with both hands on Norrington's shoulders. He squeezed gently. "You're too tense, sir."  
  
"Lieutenant..." Norrington swallowed. "What are you..."  
  
"You shouldn't let yourself get so tense, sir," said Gillette matter-of-factly, heart pounding as he kneaded his commander's shoulders and prayed Norrington wouldn't be terribly angry with him. "It's not good for you..." He worked methodically, applying pressure in the tighter spots and closing his own eyes, allowing a soft sigh to escape him.   
  
"Gillette, for God's sake..." Norrington shivered. "Gillette...why..."  
  
"You aren't complaining?" Gillette bent to speak softly into his commander's ear. "You don't want me to stop, do you?"  
  
"No," Norrington breathed. "No, I don't want you to stop."  
  
"Good," whispered Gillette. "Because I don't want to stop."  
  
Norrington arched his back as Gillette ran two fingers firmly down the back of his neck, loosening a particularly tight, painful knotted muscle. "Oh..."  
  
"That's right," murmured Gillette, moving closer still. "Relax..."  
  
Norrington bit his lip, gasping softly and leaning into Gillette's skillful touch. "Lieutenant, this is hardly...hardly what I'd call...oh, God...appropriate..."  
  
"But you don't want me to stop."  
  
Gillette wondered if Norrington could hear his heart pounding; they might well be close enough, and the officers always joked that Norrington had eyes in the back of his head and ears like a bat. He could very well be flogged for this...perhaps hanged for it...he was risking his life at the moment, but the commodore didn't seem angry. His eyes were closed, lips parted slightly, tongue darting out periodically to moisten said lips, soft and supple as they already looked...Gillette longed to bend down just a bit further and take those lips beneath his own, and unbidden, his hands slid absently around to unfasten the top two buttons of Norrington's shirt of their own accord.  
  
Norrington tensed sharply. "Lieutenant!"  
  
Gillette snapped back to reality with a gasp, and jerked his hands away. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"  
  
"Lieutenant, your conduct is wildly inappropriate. I'd go so far as to say it's illegal." Norrington turned to look his young lieutenant squarely in the eye, and his expression softened. "That doesn't mean I want you to stop."  
  
Gillette blinked. "Sir?"  
  
"Please don't stop," said Norrington quietly. "At the moment, I honestly don't give a damn how inappropriate it is." Absently, he ran his fingers across the back of Gillette's hand.   
  
"You mean that, sir?" Gillette's hands itched to find their way inside Norrington's shirt, and he returned them to the commodore's shoulders without waiting for an answer. He slid his hands inside the collar of the shirt and rested them on bare skin for a moment, sighing contentedly, kneading pliant muscle and soft, warm skin and relishing every sound Norrington made. God, he was beautiful like this, so open and human, hair disheveled, warm and flushed in the candlelight. Why didn't he ever show this side of him?  
  
"Certainly I mean it..." Norrington squirmed under his hands, in a most undignified manner. "Oh, God, Gillette..."  
  
How long it went on, neither of them could say, but at last Gillette deemed the commodore quite relaxed enough and slid his hands from where they had burrowed into Norrington's shirt. He bent down, brushing his lips lightly against the commodore's ear. "Now go to bed, sir," he whispered.  
  
Norrington stood, stretching, and steadying himself on the chair. He glanced towards the door leading to his chambers. "Stay a moment," he whispered. Gillette stopped in his tracks like an obedient hound.   
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Norrington stared him down for a moment...Gillette took note of his hesitation, the trepidation evident in his eyes, and closed the gap between them; he was perhaps three inches away. Norrington reached absently out to touch Gillette's face, leaned forward and brought their lips together. The kiss was chaste, all too brief, but it was a kiss, and both of their hearts were pounding as they separated. "My name," said Norrington, "is Lysander...and those closest to me call me Sander." He tilted Gillette's chin upward to look him in the eye. Gillette swallowed and nodded, wondering how many people Norrington had given that honor to.  
  
"My name is Renault," he offered, after a brief respectful pause. "Some call me Rene."  
  
Norrington nodded, ushering him out the door with a small smile. "Rest well, Rene."  
  
"Good night, sir," said Gillette, and caught himself. "Good night, Sander."  
  
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*buries face in hands* God, I have never written anything so sappy in my life! My career is over! But it was slashy, and therefore I'm not totally disgraced. *runs away*  
  
Ave atque vale,  
  
--Jehan's Muse 


End file.
